Checkmate
by SomethingSimsy
Summary: Based on Hima's new & official updates on Prussia's "condition" - his inevitable death. It's been a week, a week since that damn dog bit Prussia on the hand, and, despite his best efforts, he can't keep it from Germany forever. He can't keep his troubles from his second baby brother forever. He can't keep prolonging his death forever. And now Earth has played the piece. Checkmate.
1. Checkmate 1: Checkmate

**Based on the newly updated strip from Hima, explaining Prussia's horrible predicament. His **_**fatal **_**predicament. **

**Rest in peace, huh?**

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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><p>Rest in peace, huh? Is that something people still say?<p>

Haha, I'm so old now, really, that I guess I wouldn't know anymore.

Haha, I'm not even _real _now, so, really, I guess I wouldn't know anymore.

Haha… ha… I _don't _know anymore.

Why am I still alive, world? I am not a chess piece on the board in neither hand's possession, yet, still I drift here, slowly drifting, drifting away. Away somewhere into the distance with no shore in sight; I'm frantic, yet dulled, and I float on the ocean's bobbing grey surface like a boat with no passengers. A boat with no guidance. A lost little boat, with a hole in the centre, slowly filling and sinking where it won't be dearly missed, since the only one who cared long since fled.

I am not a chess piece on the board, nor am I the board itself; I am a piece that was knocked off the table by a stray hand, _smash! _I was broken, I am broken, and the players have had not the care nor effort to pick me up, nor throw me away. Or fix me. I am nothing but a pointless piece in the chess game called life.

So why did life keep me? Why do I still dwell?

Because I am not that important. I _wasn't _that important. But finally, my chess game has ended. Checkmate. I am now being picked up by the world's colossal hands, and examined.

I am being examined.

And the Earth's eyes open wide at the sight of four ghastly puncture holds right on the only things that keep me alive.

Checkmate.

* * *

><p>"Do I look like such a war maniac?" I ask with glee in my eyes, as if they're sparkling. Huh, I wouldn't be surprised; crimson is such a sexy colour, and what am I but a ruby? "I mean, look at me!" I exclaim as I look down at myself, and at the golden flute in my left hand. I don't look at the other hand, nor do I falter. "I'm filled with this artistic aura!"<p>

I don't want him to know.

…Ah, I remember. I was playing my flute for my awesome baby brother! I did that a long time ago, too… huh, that's really put a damper on my mood, I think, as I feel my gleaming smile slip for a fraction of a second…

Holy Rome was such a sweet kid…

I look up, staring at that kid I raised as my baby brother, my second baby brother.

"Nope, don't look it," he says with that same frown on his pale skin, his clear blue eyes closing for a second as his blonde eyebrows pull inwards in frustration, "don't interrupt your performance just because I said something…"

I let my raised arm drop to my side, and the flute mutely brushes against me. It's so cold, so ancient, yet so… beautiful. Huh. I don't really know what to think of that. I grip onto it a bit tighter. I feel my hand – my wounds – strain, and I wince just a tiny amount. But I can't let it show.

I don't want him to know.

But before I know it, my bro's talking again. "Since you're so good at it," he says, and I crack a wide smile to hide something or other clutching on the inside of my throat – _heh, I knew it, that's what he said, too _– "maybe you should consider really honing your skills to perfection."

He huffs out a sigh as he scratches his face, and combs back his hair with a calloused hand. I stare at him. Man, do I feel old. "You can stage a concert. It's a much more wholesome thing to do than keeping first place in some FPS game." In spite of his words, I blink, and time seems to slow like a drop of water catching in the light.

I blink. Did he just…? I look to the side, down somewhere, as I feel the muscles around my eyebrows draw down and tighten. Damn, they even think alike, huh? Germany and Holy…

Holy… Rome…

I blink up and, in my stupor, I didn't realise he was expecting me. I didn't realise he was there at all. Well, shit, he's looking at me, I better reply. "FPS is not just a game!" I cry out weakly – damn, _that's _not an underestimate lately, I think bitterly – but I let the argument drop as I become once again lost for words.

Everything's so hard now-days. Ever since I…

Ever since I didn't want him to know.

I shake my head, feel the hot sweat roll down the side of my face, from under my sticky white hair, and reply quickly, "But that's a good idea. Since you do all the work anyway, I'm bored out of my mind." Heh. _That's _not a lie, I can tell you that much.

But I don't wanna be alone. I look at him, force my lips to twist into a smile as I squeeze my eyes shut and playfully poke my baby brother in the face with the end of the flute. "Or maybe you can perform with me, West!" I joke, and force out a laugh. Huh. My face feels hot. "And begin your sacred journey of the flute!" Even _I'm _embarrassing myself! Oh well, two's better than one. At least I can play the part. West's not even _trying _to hide his pink cheeks!

"What? Me?" He pushes the flute from his face, but my teasing is consistent. Yeah, I'm cool like that. "But I've only learned to play the flute that one time when you taught me, when I was just born–"

Like another drop of water through the sunlit-sky, now turning red, my vision blurs.

_...What? _I… I never did that… I played for… Holy Rome, sure, b-but he was sick! He… he died, and he loved to hear me play, I even gave him a few private concerts, he loved them! He loved me! He… he needed me, heh…

Can't say that's true for the world anymore…

Except, maybe West…

Except, maybe _Ludwig… _

I look up, my eyes bright as my platinum eyebrows pull together in some kind of awesome mix of frustration and determination. I open my mouth wide and shout, "That's not true, West! You can play it just fine!"

But Germany doesn't seem to believe me. "I can't just play the flute all of a sudden!" he says in his frustration, groaning as he pushes the flute away from his face again but I poke him right back! Haha, I love playing with this guy. I don't know any other way to spend the days. "Didn't I just give you the reason? Listen to what I'm saying!"

I snort. My superior smirk relaxes into a proper smile, a cheerful one at that, and I close my eyes. "No way, you're a fantastic flute player!" I beam, and, heck, sometimes I can be one awesome ass, but this time… "Since you're my little brother!" …I couldn't lie, could I?

Heh…

But…

I still don't want him to know.

But I still have to do this.

I hold out the flute, and with a raised chin I present it in front of him, as if I'm knighting him, my now all-grown-up baby brother, the silver instrument gleaming as I hold it evenly in both hands. It's like a sword; tradition and all that. It's all I've ever been good at apart from destroying, and… and Holy Rome, too…

Let's just say I don't want to see it waste.

Let's just say I don't want to see _myself _waste.

…He pauses, his brow furrowed as he looks up at me from his half-crouched position. He doesn't seem to understand what I'm doing, and, honestly, it _is _understandable he doesn't have a clue – I'm a dead beat, he's got it all, and now I'm giving him the one last piece of meaning left to my name. Plus, he doesn't know.

But I don't _want _him to know.

"I guess I'll take it from you anyway…" he says with a rather high-pitch twinge as his voice fades into nothing. He takes the flute, the last piece of me, from my hands like a thief; they open and close immediately, involuntarily, like they've just lost the hands of their child held so tightly, taken by a wind in crowd of hurricanes.

"_That was a great performance," he says with a cough, pulling the soft blankets up around him like a king lion in his den… huh… "The flute is a beautiful instrument." He coughs again, but looks at me like a smile. _

_He's such a sweet kid, angelic even, this Holy little Rome… _

"_Who would've thought a war-maniac like you has such talent in music?" he jokes with a strained smile, because his muscles just won't let him try anything healthier. Anything more childlike. Anything more loving. _

_The Earth won't let his young, brotherly life be anything less cruel. _

I smile down at Germany, at my surviving baby brother, with a true hue of love in my eyes, like I'm listening to a strange change of soft, classical music, the kind _he _would have listened to. The kind I would have played for him. _I'll do what he never could grow up to do. And he'll… Germany'll be what he always would have been. _

"…Let's play some music," I say with a soft look, and I know it, and strangely, I don't even care.

And Germany looks tense, muffled, but his brow eases and he smiles lightly up at me.

…I now know what I've lost, and what I'll continue losing.

I suddenly don't feel the tight smile on my face anymore.

"…Did you injure the back of your hand…?"

I numbly look down, raise my hand, already knowing which one he means. How can I not? I just didn't want him to know.

And now, for me, Holy Rome is happening all over again like in a cruel nightmare I knew I'd always have, but never thought would come. I guess wishes aren't what really turns the world around, huh?

It's greed. And it's truth.

"Oh…" I say, staring at the wound on my outstretched hand with a rather poor attempt at shock and confusion. My face is hot and clammy, and it feels like I'm radiating heat like a fire. I might as well be.

I get my act together. "Um, this! Yeah," I laugh, tugging the sleeve of my jacket over the now gaping wound – _damn it, why didn't I cover it more earlier, stupid, stupid! _– "I kinda hurt myself a… moment ago, haha, stupid, right? That big pup just doesn't understand my charm at all," I bumble out as my eyes fall to the side.

I can't look at him anymore.

I can't let him know anymore.

"Are you teasing him again?" Germany mutters with an anxious contortion of his face. "Geez…" Ah, he's disappointed in me. I guess I can't blame him. It's not really the dog's fault he knows, is it?

It's not really the dog's fault I'm dying, is it?

Germany goes off to scold the dog, the poor pup, and I just look away.

I'm dying. No, not metaphorically, not of embarrassment, not like how everyone says it so carelessly every day… how _I _would probably carelessly say it in the past…

But, I'm dying.

And now he knows.

I look over, at the dog. Huh, Germany's wondered off, huh? The tight strained smile on the face has long since died and disappeared off of the face of the Earth. Not like it was real, anyway.

And now I can't help but feel that phrasing will come back to bite me on my ass. Or my hand.

I breathe out a shaky sigh at that. My guilty, red eyes fall on the dog and, with the look in its eyes as it stares back at me, I know it knows. Heck, how couldn't it? Animals probably have those internal clocks or whatever…

Ah, shit, what's it matter if a damn dog knows? _He_ doesn't have to know yet…

He… Germany doesn't have to know yet.

But he'll know in a week.

I self-consciously tug at my jacket sleeve until the taut material covers my bite wound completely, right below my white and strained knuckles.

It's been a week since that dog bit my hand, not a day, not just now…

…It's been a week since I discovered I was once and truly…

…Dying…

And now he knows. He'll know in a week, and he'll know in a day.

Checkmate.

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><p><strong>Probably will update as Hima does. Love Prussia to bits, and to hear he's going…<strong>

…

…

…

…

**I have no words. I guess these are them…**


	2. Checkmate 1,1: To Fake The Game

I sit down, on the edge of the bed, as I rub at my hand. Crap.

I've tried everything, you know. Ointment, plasters, cotton wool, as sorts of kinky shit just to try and smooth the kinks out in my sickly-looking skin. But it's not working.

Those wounds are still there, and they're not gonna go away. Ever.

You know why?

Yeah, I've said it before.

Because I'm dying.

I sigh, laugh without a bite or a bit of humour in me at how depressed I am, and fall back. Ah, the covers are soft. The kid once slept on them, you know? I guess I'm like that sometimes. Old and sentimental. Because, well, you can't pretend forever you're still young, even if that's what your heart tells ya!

…I guess my immune system had something else to say, though.

Oh, and history. That too.

I look over at the pillows. There's a shit-tonne of them. I had to get rid of quite a lot since Germany doesn't like sleeping like a baby or something, and I said I'd give them to the dog, but they just went 'missing'. Well, serves that dog right for biting my hand, anyway. Idiot dog. They're my pillows!

They're… mine…

They're… I look over at the wall, staring at it. They're Holy Rome's.

Haha, you wouldn't believe how long some cotton can survive with some preservation. Pretty unreal, huh? I guess there are a lot of things like that. You've just gotta beat them with skill.

Like my wounds.

You've just gotta beat them with skill.

You've just gotta hide them with skill.

You've just gotta die with skill.

I stare, blankly, at the ceiling and the posts of the beds. The wood's not in good shape anymore. Past its era, I suppose. I guess that's why it's so comfortable to me. We're one in the same, huh?

Well, at least Holy Rome, Germany and I got some use out of this bed. And the former out of me. I hope I was a good brother, always. That's what I've always wanted to be.

That's why I gave the blonde sucker my flute. I never had the chance to… haha, yeah, so now I'm giving it to him. It's been awhile now since he's been around. Passing over one hundred! Haha…

Ha…

I breathe in, and out, and push myself off of the bed with a groan. Man, am I lazy or what? I stretch, making a few of my joints pop (ouch!) and I walk out of the room, looking side to side first. Ugh, imagine what would happen if Germany turned up here!

Aha…

I hope I haven't said anything too incriminating!

…Better clean up my act, anyway.

I clear my throat, cough a bit, and jump up and down once, fist pumped in the air as I shout and scream down the hallway, "_Yes! _High score!" I look either way, tight smile on my face (my cheeks kinda hurt from the pressure, man, I'm so weak nowadays), and drag it out a little. "Haha, West, you try and tell me FPS' are worth jack-shit now!"

I hear no sign, see no sign, and look to the floor, my vision blurring a bit. I feel the muscles in my cheeks and my mouth relax, and, in fact, the corners of my lips dip down a bit, pulling at me. God, I'm weak. Frowning hurts? Heck, that just makes me frown more!

…Ha, I'm so stupid, aren't I? I always knew I was a bit useless since I pretty much got wiped from the history books in the making… what, how many decades ago now?

…Huh.

I shuffle my feet, shift my weight from side to side before rubbing my foot on the carpet. Shit, what am I doing? What am I really doing?

Ugh, I don't wanna think about that.

I close the door to the bedroom behind me and head off to the kitchen or something. I've got no other use to me now, I guess.

But, before I do, I enter my room on the way. On the counter is a pair of my leather gloves, the kind that make me look super awesome – like a rock-star, haha!

I slip one on, wincing as the tight material pulls at my wounds, and I frown, looking at the other. With a quick grumble and a shake of my head, I pull the second one on my other hand so I don't look too suspicious.

Huh. I've always wanted to stand out, before I was useless, and after that date long ago, too. Now I wanna hide bits of me more than anything.

I don't know anymore. All I do know is, with a quick cough, and a glance either side, pretty soon, I'm gonna have to retire to… that bed over there somewhere.

I wonder what _he'd _say if he was here to see me today…?

…

…

…

…I need a coffee.

I slip out of the room, finishing up the show to myself, and head to the kitchen. It's gonna be a long night.


	3. Checkmate 2: Halloween's Clown

**Based on Hima's recent Halloween strip, in which Lithuania is seeking Poland, and Prussia is in the bathroom, "washing his face…"**

**Hmm…**

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><p>Halloween!<p>

Yeah, I quite like this holiday. I'd usually get drunker on Oktoberfest but that's passed now, so I guess crashing everyone's parties and being the awesome me is all there's left to do on this October!

Well, not crashing, exactly. I'm not supposed to turn up to world meetings or anything as important, as strenuous as that, but parties? Well, I _am _the life at them! Even if… well, I'm not technically anywhere else.

Anyway, Germany let me come.

I kinda feel like that idiot dog right now. But a lot less… cute. What a stupid thing to be worrying about. Usually I'd be happy about battle scars, thinking they made me look like a true warrior, some kind of proof of my existence, I suppose, even something as scarring as that, and yet…

And yet, this scar runs too deep, I think as I gently run my fingers over the puncture holes on my hand for probably the thirteenth time today, between my knuckles, right where they have been for quite some time. _Quite _a lot of time, actually.

And they still won't leave.

And I still know why.

And I still feel that awful twist of my gut as I involuntarily whine. Like a cry for help. But no one's listening, and I can only want them to have deaf ears.

I sigh, suddenly feeling in need of a drink again. I head for the beer hall – wherever that is, but considering we're all countries, and, well, with what that brings, I wouldn't be surprised if there were gallons upon gallons of all the vodka and beer in the world in the back somewhere where no one else could find and steal it like a bunch of addicted hoarders.

I spot a table, draped with a black tablecloth, and head over, my eyes only trained on the clear, empty mug and the beer keg just a foot or so away. I mutely realise I'm brushing past a lot of people I know, a lot of friends, enemies, siblings, even – but what would _they _care? I'm just Prussia, drunk ol' beer-loving Prussia! It's not like I drink for the taste, though I guess that was part of the reason at the start!

It's not like any of us drink for the taste anymore though, is it? We're not young. We're not free. I never really wondered why Russia drinks so much vodka; you don't have to, or I didn't, at least. I wouldn't doubt it if he served it up with his cereal or soaked it in his meats and his breads every long and tiring, drawn-out dreary day of his miserable, confused life.

Ever since we were little kids I remember running into him. He was a bit lost in the cold land that was his – his sisters were there for guidance but he could only run away when he felt impoverished, and I, yeah, well, I wasn't much better. But us Templars were bankers! That must be where stupid little Switzy got it from…

We're greedy, and we steal, so we can make a profit…

Maybe we're all like that… huh?

My eyes fall on Germany. He looks awkward from so far away, shuffling around to the side, with his darting gaze to the floor as Italy tries to pass him some orange juice and he only sighs and takes it, drinking it slowly and then putting it down after a gulp. Italy's still smiling at him.

He's a cute kid, that Italy. He was… he was such a nice guy to Holy… Rome at the time. Yeah. He taught him some of the ways – to express, to deliver, to feel… I guess I never could, huh? And then France, a-and then France went on and he just, and he went and–!

"_Bonjour_, Prussia. How are you today?"

_Shit. Shitting shit! I… _"Hey, France! How's it going, you little bitch?" I laugh, and he laughs with a light frown before he sips on his red and sloshing wine like a true, refined, under control gentlemen, his eyes darting at my from under his eyelashes. Like he shouldn't be looking at me. I feel my drink go untastefully bitter immediately, even though I haven't taken a good drink yet. I feel my throat tighten now, and I wanna gulp, and I wanna leave, but I can't really do either. France has seen a lot in his days, and so have I, so I don't doubt he'd notice.

And I don't doubt, considering our years together, he'd realise that something is very much up. Or down. Or upside down. "Indeed," he says with a twisted smile now, and something floats away from my stomach. It doesn't stop the violent twists and pangs, though. It feels like some kind of heavy indigestion. "Is that beer there, in your hand?" France asks, and I look at it, feel its cold, destructive nature through the clouded glass and in a blink of an eye down the whole thing. Maybe I just can't digest this anymore.

Maybe I just can't do this anymore.

When I sigh out of relief, my eyes slightly wet and teary with a smudge of bleariness, without much care put I put the now empty glass down on some spare table behind me, I catch him look at the table's edge and then back up again. Like a snap of his fingers. Like he's trying to catch my attention.

Like I'm trying to catch his.

I look down, and don't hold back my tongue and my gulp this time, my _other _hand coming to scratch at my neck, at my tender throat, whilst my anxious eyes fall back to Francis. I feel the outer edges of my eyebrows pull back, tighten; taught like a bow, ready to fire.

I know what he's thinking, don't I…?

I need to know what he's thinking.

I look at the space his critical, clear blue eyes had snapped to before, and possibly now, even whilst I dreadfully follow the same slow pattern. It's the cuts, the bruises purpling around them, the puncture wounds like little needles to my heart. That's what he was looking at, wasn't it?

That would be the second man in a week, then. How much _more? _

"…I need to go to the bathroom. Too much beer," I laugh, but the sound quickly dies to become as lifeless as it just was when I bitterly spat the taste of it out of my equally bitter mouth.

I rush off to the bathroom, ignoring any sparing looks I get as I do so. I shove my hand in my pocket, the other rushing to my mouth as I try to hold it in.

I don't look back to see if France is still there.

I don't know if I want to know.

Do I?

* * *

><p>I throw up, as disgusting as it is, into the most likely empty school stall. But it's not a sickness, I acknowledge with an uncharacteristically low grunt as I spit out the last of the bitter bile in my mouth, washing it down the toilet as I wipe the last dribbles away from my mouth. Hm. Maybe it's not <em>that <em>uncharacteristic.

It's the nerves. I know they did this. Usually I wouldn't have any, I'm just that kind of guy!

…But now it's changed. Everything, everything at all, has been changed in one twisted way or another, it seems.

I spit up more bile, my eyes now drifting to the perfectly polished sink embedded on the surface of the bathroom tiled countertop. There's not much to think.

I need to wake up. I need to wake up _fast. _

I turn on the tap and let the water run in a flash, ice cold at first, but slowly, and ever so slowly, I think the water's now turned mildly bearable.

I pick some up in my cupped hands, my cupped, pale, now red and raw and ice-burned sickly hands, and throw it up into my face, revelling as I feel it slip over my skin like its nothing. It can't get through, can it? It can't get under my skin. The water can't get under my skin!

…But the cold can, no matter its source.

…Since when did _I _start talking in metaphors? Who do _I _think I am: Austria?

Yeah, right. I'd never be like him, andI won't be now!

He's too classical, and perfect, and loved, and alive, and doing everything right like–

I growl at myself. I slap myself internally, and I imagine it, right now. I look pathetic. I look sick.

I look like Holy Rome did all those years ago, and I'm just about to croak. Funny I can finally think his name, let alone say it, just when I'm nearing the same fate. Survivor's guilt, I suppose. I outlived my baby brother – what I there to say? I played him a song, did my bow, yet he was the one to leave stage.

I frown. I frown darkly. The muscles on my face are straining and are pulling and are burning like fire, like fire every battle I've been through, like fire in my red-raw eyes the day I cried my heart out for my slain little brother, my slain, poor child, the one stabbed and brutally murdered by France, an adult an–

I hiccup–

A-a total child-murdering _b-bastard_–

"Oh, hey, it's you!"

I startle, turn, and with a little screech throw more freezing water in my eyes, in my wide open, burning eyes, and they're freezing like I'm being stabbed and gouged repeatedly with tonnes of little rusty needles and I growl in the back of my throat as the little shavings scour deep into me and to keep myself from crying more I–

"Have you seen Poland anywhere?" the same guy from before says again and, through my now ferociously stinging, gouging eyes, I vaguely recognise the light-voiced guy as Lithuania. That asshole. That total asshole, barging in on me like this–

I hiccup–

And choke up my words, finally spitting out, "Li-_whatever-your-name-is! _D-don't come barging in on me like that…!"

He frowns, and I vaguely realise he's quietly asking me something, and I look at him, out the corner of my stinging, burning, _straining _eye, and he says, "…Are you feeling sick?"

My eyes shoot to my hand. _You idiot! _I look up, and bring my hand up to my chest, covering it tenderly but tactically with the other as I hastily reply back, "I-I was just washing my face!"

He seems to believe me. Or he just won't press any further with his weak-willed boots. I click my fingers, my hand drawing in on itself as I look away, my eyes and my cheeks blotchy and red and I know it because I've seen it all too much before, and I feel my eyes ache, feel the tiredness just as I saw it in the mirror before from my big, black drooping bags under my eyes. Like sacks. Like I'm _that pathetic. _Because _I am. _"…I don't know where Po-_whatever-his-name _is, but…" I snap my fingers again, putting on an excited smile that even I can feel is strained and fake. God, do I totally _disgust _myself sometimes, man! "I did hear an eerie voice coming from Russia's teddy bear saying _'Like, help me~!'_"

Lithuania pales, and runs off, to finish his little quest. I guess he doesn't know I've probably just sent him in pointless circles. Like hell I'd know where Poland is. Or maybe I'm right? Russia's one crazy bastard most of the time.

Sad truth is that little inspiration came from a mix of three things: Poland's annoying tics, what's been running through my head _all _too long, and the nightmares I've had of Holy Rome crying for help, desperate for it, as he coughs and heaves and is just about ready to keel over before I rush to him. And his face is already wet with tears. And his bed is already wet with the piss he couldn't hold back because he was that goddamn scared.

Yeah.

I don't wanna end up like that.

I shiver at the thought and, with a long, heavy, and well-needed sigh, I head back to the party.

Everyone needs a light of the party, because everyone needs a clown.

Everyone needs a clown so they can feel a little less shit about themselves, so, where's my little clown?

I guess it will have to be Germany. He's pretty cute when he gets riled up, anyway.

Yeah.

_Clown. _


	4. Checkmate 3: The Old At Heart

**Based on a continuation strip by Hima of Prussia at the Halloween party.**

* * *

><p>I head back to the party, as I planned to, but I don't spot Germany – I do, however, spot Austria.<p>

He'll do. I can make fun of him, can't I? That'll make it all better.

Yeah…

He'll do.

Anyone'll do.

I stop by him, and, with a grin already forcing its way onto my face, I say out loud, "Hey, Austria, how are you doing today?" I look him up and down, my eyes narrowing. "I see you're… dressed, heh."

He's wearing his usual formal attire, of course, pretty cravat and all.

Heh.

So stuck in the past. Or perhaps his elderly future?

"Yes, well," Austria strains simply, turning his furrowed eyes away from me as he tries to find something to act as an excuse. Heh… I didn't know I was that bad. Oh, well. I've started now, haven't I? What reason do I have to really stop? "Well, I don't think you can talk," Austria says with a bite, "Just look at what you're wearing…"

He looks back at me, groaning in the back of his throat with clear distaste (at the fact I'm still here no doubt), and, with a light gasp and twist of the head, his eyes land somewhere that makes my blood run cold–

But I'm covered.

In my pockets are the gloves I picked up from the dresser earlier on. I put them on after I left the bathroom, not too long ago. I've had a lot of alcohol since then, too. I don't know why that's significant.

Heh. I know why, don't I?

I couldn't… couldn't let anyone _else _see, could I?

No.

No, I couldn't.

I realise with blurred vision that I lost myself. I look up, right into Austria's narrowed and analysing eyes – _look at them dart about, that little shit _– and I quickly say, "What? Can't handle my superior style just because I don't wear a prissy little cravat? I'd rather see you naked than in that, haha."

Ugh. That was awkward. Austria seems to have bought it though as he's looking away, almost _growling _like the little kitty cat he is in the back of his throat. W-wait… is he… _blushing?_

"Oh my god…"

This is the best distraction by far.

"…What were you planning on wearing?"

He turns even redder, huffs, and looks away with his devious little eyes turned upwards. I laugh. Huh. "I _knew _it…! Little Austria wanted to come to the party _naked–!_"

"Hush, Prussia!" he screeches, and looks around, a few suspicious, narrowed eyes turning away painfully slow. Yeah, _painful _for _him! _"I–"

"I didn't know you liked to, you know, _live _a little," I say with a smile, my curious eyes glancing all over his face, his admittedly youthful and bright eyes, skin, hair, the shine of his glasses as he looks at me like that, through the glass between us, with a curious frown. I realise, in a blink, in a second, the smile has faded into nothing on my face. I feel my face relax further. My mouth feels even a little downturned now.

I'm sure he wasn't expecting that. Perhaps he was expecting it even less so than I for his… life.

I cough, feel hot pricks in the corners of my eyes, on my eyelashes, and they start to itch, so I wipe them, digging my nail in, wincing at it as I bark out a bout of laughs quickly and forcibly.

"It's not that funny, Prussia!" Austria harshly whispers next to me, his eyes darting around in concern for his own silly little reputation. As if there aren't more important issues than _that. _"There is no need whatsoever to _cry…_"

I feel my brow tense at that and, in my lapse of misjudgement, and I quickly perk up, my head shakily twisting around as I reach out, my fingers clenching and rolling as I spot one figure who can save me in this moment.

Hungary.

"Hungary!"

She turns, her long hair flowing like a pretty, sparkling waterfall over her shoulder, and she looks so young, with her big, cheery, rosy smile and I feel something inside of me sink. But I can't let her prop herself up over me. I can't let anyone.

I vaguely notice Germany is sighing next to me, behind me, behind my back, and I take a little step backwards and hear a similar response behind me.

I cough.

"Mister Austria!" She smiles. She has a pretty smile. "Thank goodness I found you…"

I swallow, and bark out a harsh laugh. It's even bitter to my ears like acidic bile in my stomach, in my throat. I choke out my response; "Oh, Hungary!" I act as if I didn't call her. "You came just in time for my funny story!"

I hear Austria groan, loudly, as he slumps in on himself.

Something dwells uncomfortably in my stomach.

His humiliation for others' attention on me? Which would I rather chose, huh?

Which… which would _you_ choose?

Heh. Don't make me say it.

I force out another puff of laughter, on my last breath, and feel tears prick in my eyes again like rusty iron daggers. They sure sting like them. "Our spoiled prince here tried to come completely naked!" I look around, trembling smile on my face, and I choke, f-from _laughing _of course, "I repeat, _completely naked!_"

I point up my dark gloved hand, and take a glance to my right at the huffing and puffing man beside me. There's beads of sweat rolling down his face, like something else down my cheeks which I can already feel are radiating heat like a scorching fire. He cries, "_Stop this instant! _I refrained from actually doing it, so it's fine!"

Hungary falters, her eyes darting to my hand before she closes her eyes, humming lightly in the back of her throat. I pause, my brow tightening as I lower my hand, admittedly self-consciously hiding it behind my costumed back as I cautiously ask, a strained furrow above my eyes and in my throat, "Hungary…?"

She doesn't respond.

I gulp down whatever burning acid was ripping out the walls of my raw throat.

This time Germany steps forward, his brow tensed as a few strands of his young blonde hair fall loose. He opens his mouth, his eyes narrowed slightly as he asks, oddly restless, "Hungary, are you okay?" He gets no response. "You look strange…"

Hungary says nothing.

But, suddenly, she opens her eyes slowly, downturned to the ground first but then, in a split second, as my eyes widen to an incredibly round, burning red shape, a bright light shining in them suddenly which causes me to blink back and shrink away, squinting, her small little smile falls. It feels like an ocean of weight has fallen from her, onto her tensed shoulders, onto me, drenching me, drowning me, chilling me to the bone as I shiver and cry for help but the words get warped in the thick walls of suffocating water.

Down my back. Down my throat. Over my… my _everything._

Onto my nationless back.

Onto my people-less back.

And I have no people. I have no nation. I have no boss, no direction, no _point…_ I… I have no backbone.

I can't support the weight.

I buckle, then pick myself up, laughing awkwardly as I fall onto my very mistake, into it, into broad daylight as hundreds and hundreds of show lights fall onto me.

It's just another wrong move, another wrong turn.

I turn hastily, say something about getting another beer or having too much beer or both and I scamper off, like a coward, like a pathetic little idiot who thinks they're something special, something _great. _

_Ha._

_Checkmate. _


	5. Checkmate 3,1: A Kid In A Park Somewhere

**Something inspired me to write this… maybe it's because I recently watched bits from **_**What's Eating Gilbert Grape **_**and I just… I don't know…**

**Oh, and ****in case you don't know****, in this story, if a chapter is formatted with only a number, e.g. **_**Checkmate 1: … **_**then it is based on an official strip by Hima. If it has a format like **_**Checkmate 1,1: … **_**then it is purely my imagination, a really extended version of real strips that doesn't really relate to them anymore. Just so you know!**

* * *

><p>I stumble backwards, forwards, I don't even know anymore. Either way, my eyes are only trained on that door, that damn exit door to this whole, stuffy room that's really starting to suffocate me.<p>

I push it open with a grunt, hurtle out, and pause, pushing all my weight on my knees with my hands as I breathe out and in again.

Okay.

I'm okay.

I sigh, heavily, and get myself properly to my feet. Man, this party was a bust. For me at least. I already felt that damn dread the moment I stepped in, then had to visit the bathroom, and then all of _that…_

Well, it's not a surprise I visited the beer, either. It always _has _been my favourite drink.

I take a swig, and then start eyeing the frosty glass my numbing hands are wrapped around. It's still half full. I take another swig, wiping my mouth as I blink my bleary eyes, looking for some clarity but never finding it… I take a last swig, noticing the glass is empty, and put it down on some wall I find as I wander on, wonder on, thinking, _maybe it was just half empty the whole time. _

Because it sure went so fast.

I pause once I reach the roadside, and look back at the building I just left; the lights are still blinding me through the cracked windows and the music is still blaring at me through the muffling walls of the place.

I silently exhale.

The party's still going strong, huh?

Well, who am I to deny them their fun…?

I walk on at that, barely looking both ways as I cross the road almost aimlessly, looking for a place to crash for tonight. I'm not in my homeland, not today. I travelled abroad with everyone else for this party. I look around now, realising with flickering eyes that, huh, I can barely recognise this place. It looks pretty modern… maybe America? Maybe not.

Maybe it doesn't even matter enough to me to continue that pointless self-sided conversation that I can't believe I almost just had.

My eyelids feel heavy as I almost stare at the ground. My gaze isn't moving, anyway. Where am I now? I don't want to look up. It looks like I'm on a pathway, though. By a roadside, perhaps?

A car rushes past, throwing me back a bit as I stumble to my side, catch myself just in time, and pause, not breathing, before I sigh.

God, if only someone I knew was in that car. What they must think of me, huh?

"_What is that drunken idiot doing?" _Yeah, probably.

"_That guy must have a death-wish!" _Yeah, I wouldn't doubt that, either.

"_What, is that guy crazy?" _Yeah…

"_What, is that guy trying to kill himself?" _

I think back to the beer I left abandoned outside the life I left behind. The life of the party someone else snatched from me as if I ever had it.

Yeah.

Yeah, I probably _am _trying to kill myself.

But nations can't die, can they?

I realised I've stopped walking some time ago, and look around me again. Seems I've come to some residential area. Still, it's pretty populated, and I think I can see my hotel in sight. The moon is clouded but the pale light still shines through, almost grey, as it illuminates the hotel, like it's my final resting point.

Heh.

I scratch my knuckle under my gloves, scrunch up my nose, and hazardously throw the tight leather crap to the floor. I hope it gets run over.

There's no point in thinking that. I've still got time.

I pick myself up, brush myself off, stare at the slowly infecting puncture wounds on my hand, still there, red raw, and move on.

_So, how many does that make it? _I snort. _First that stupid dog knows about my bite – he's the bastard that did it, after all – and then there's Germany… and possibly France, Austria, Hungary, everyone, soon. How long's it been? _

One and a half weeks.

I'm certain.

It's been one and a half _weeks _since that dog bit me, and, as I know, as I knew, it still isn't healing. Not even a little. Barely at human rate!

…Maybe I'm just a weak human. No humans to hold, not even human myself. What am I?

I'm in a park. I walk in, listening with dulled ears at the light crackly, airy shake of the leaves on the trees, carrying on the light breeze. Huh. That would be the kind of rhyme I'd tell Holy Rome to make me look smarter, feel like smiling, and to make _him_ smile.

And then I smile, palely, looking down at the ground. It's too late to think that.

Some things have a pattern of changing, don't they?

"Hey, Ludwig, where are you?"

I pause, dead in my tracks as I feel a sudden cold chill run over me, sticking my clothes to my back like a second skin. _W-what…?_

"Ludwig!" the voice calls again, in German, "_Ludwig! Where are you?_"

I feel something inside of my throat tighten as I try to swallow it away. Shit… shit, shit, _shit! _Stop pinning your past onto your present! Your present onto your…

I don't even know. But now a new voice is calling. "Mum! Mum, help! I need help!"

Something rips at my guts at that. A kid, it sounds like. A young one. One like Holy Rome would have been. Apparently, also, they're stuck. And, as I wander the park, frantically chasing some goal that isn't even mine, has nothing to do with me, I spot a stuck little kid, a stuck little boy, looking for help.

And I feel my bones shatter in my knees right there and then. "Holy…?"

The kid's head turns, looking at me, regarding me with those huge blue eyes as their blonde eyebrows pull upwards, in semi-shock, at the sign of help from a stranger. I swallow, tensely frown, and think, and say, "I'm not going to hurt you, kid…"

"…Please get my mum," he says weakly, fearfully, still in German, and I nod, saying my agreements quickly back as I stumble and run away. Something inside of my chest aches at the fact I can't help him myself, but I know it's only right; I had my own time with a little kid like him. It was short lived, true, but it was… magnificent.

So I know I can't deny anyone that right.

I can't deny anyone that happiness.

I can't deny anyone their own… Holy Rome…

"Miss!" I shout into the air, my heart beating fast and painfully against my aching ribs as I run, panting hard into the air with little white, frosty breaths fading into the atmosphere, dying in the cold as soon as they're out of my lungs. "Miss, your child! I've found him–!"

"_Who are you?_" the woman shouts frantically, fearfully, as she steps away. I've run right up to her when it's getting dark, like a predator in the night. Crap. I didn't mean to do that. Maybe it's the red in my eyes… "Where is he?" she asks me, honestly, crutching at the straws of hope as it gets darker. I don't know why she's so… desperate.

I did anything to protect Holy Rome, true, but to this extent…

I… I only did this _much _in the end of his…

I gulp, painfully, and tell her simply, "I-I'll show you the way, I was just heading through…"

I run, and she follows after me. Soon enough we reach a tree, a tree where this fragile little boy is stuck. She gasps, and I look between the separated two with pain in my eyes, and no doubt in my strained face. This is hard. I don't know why. But, something about this, the fearful look in both their eyes, the regretful look in hers, is making this _so _difficult for me.

I struggle, and gulp, and reach up to get the kid because she can't seem to reach herself.

I grip the tree trunk tightly, my foot catching and slipping with searing pain as I clench my jaw, trying to get the kid down–

"P-please, let me get him," she says as she lightly pulls on the bottom of my shirt. I push myself off to the ground and, with widening eyes, I watch her look around frantically, find an unhinged bench nearby, and drag it over with strain. She's clearly struggling so, in my last ditch effort to help, I run over, grabbing the other side of the bench to help her carry it.

From her initial widened eyes and falter on the hold that I quickly counter, she is scared, and confused, and scared out of her mind. The repetition is important, trust me. Either way, she quickly determines something in her mind as she shakes her head, letting me help her carry the bench to her desperate son in half the time.

As soon as the bench hits the ground she's climbing on it, reaching up and wrapping her arms around that little boy like a lifeline. She pulls him tightly against her chest and steps down, setting him down, and I vaguely realise he is up to her waist. So, not _really _young.

So, even _more _like Holy Rome.

And he's also got a tube running around his face like a noose.

"Is he okay?" I ask without much thought and, with a tense pull of her eyebrows, I feel it is something I shouldn't have asked, something I shouldn't have pressed. I pull back my lips, smiling slightly, hopefully apologetically as I turn to walk away–

"I-it's day release from…" She seems to be considering saying something even more shocking, but my eyes still widen at that… "It's day release from the hospital. I… I need to go now. Goodbye, a-and thank you," she says before she hurries off and, with a last care for that kid, and his mum, I'm letting that portion of a life pass me by like another frosted leaf in the wind.

And now I just stand here, in this cold park, for what seems like hours even now. The people in my country would have lived on to have lives like that, tragic or not. They would have had magnificent parties like all the nations are having right now back at wherever, like their people are simultaneously doing. But not mine.

I'm just alone, here, helping some woman and her kid and now not at all.

Helping a kid that's young, not too young, with blue eyes and blonde hair and an innocence about him that seems to suggest… seems to suggest he doesn't know what being in a hospital really means as a kid.

Like Holy Rome and a cough.

But he was always a smart kid. I always _did _wonder if he knew what his fate would be, because I sure know mine…

I swallow, and blink my eyes, rapidly, bring the heel of my hand up to cover them as I sniff and cough out my pain.

_My _pain, as if it's mine…

I cry more, and the hot daggers continue to stab me. It's cruel. Life is cruel. It's all so…

I breathe out, the feeling even shaky to me, and I sit myself down on the bench that I helped move. I look at it, at the little engraving on the back, at the _in memory of_ and I just freeze, mutely, not quite guilty. You know why?

This bench just helped save a dying life. I don't know what to think about that.

I stand up, gently push the thing back to its original spot and, with a fleeting glance around me, spot a little dandelion sprouting up from the frosty grass, despite itself, despite its situation, despite _everything. _It delicately dances in the wind, its little seeds like helicopters catching one by one but not quite gliding away like paper birds, like new and young life _should _be.

It will die soon enough in this cold. What a late bloomer. Must be its own fault, I suppose…

So I pick it.

I sit back on the bench, resting my back against the cold of the sodden wood and think, with an unreadable feeling in my heart, one wish.

I blow on the dandelion, watching the little flowers fly everywhere into the sky, all around me, as they travel past me like the new life on the wind I hoped they would be.

For one thing to live, another has to die.

I smile.

And I never say my wish aloud as I place the dandelion stalk on the bench behind me.

_Checkmate, _I think with bright, clear eyes, _no matter how insignificant… checkmate right back. _


	6. Checkmate 4: You Reckless Fool

**Based upon an old strip I found from awhile back in 2010, entitled "You Reckless Fool," showing… well, Prussia, gleeful in the sky, and Germany…**

**Germany, overlooking his older brother's grave. **

**Yeah. **

**That one stabbed me in the ol' feels. **

**Anyway, here's my 'flashback' (*hint* it may not be a flashback *le gasp*) interpretation.**

* * *

><p><em>I smile, smile down at him. He's my baby brother, why wouldn't I, haha?<em>

_Oh, well, there might be one reason. _

_There might be one reason, that reason being, I'm dead. As cold and dead as that stake of old, sodden wood stabbed in the ground down there, on that hill top. And he's looking at my grave, that little insignificant cross like a losing strike in a game of noughts and crosses. Maybe a checkmate in a cruel game of chess would be a better comparison. _

_Because I'm mateless, and I've signed the check for my end, I guess?_

_I sigh. _

_Being dead is not as fun as it seems, which is absolutely, totally the _opposite _of awesome as it is already. I sigh again. I guess I just didn't know what I'd miss. I'd already lost it all as a teen, just a young, naïve teen, I'll admit with a bit of strained jaw, when Holy Rome didn't see the light of day again after I played him that little private concert he loved, or I think he did, anyway… And now, guess what?_

_Now all I can see is the light of day, my second brother, overlooking my grave on this cold summer morning. _

_Ouch. _

_I think it's starting to bite at me now like Germany's stupid dogs. Nah, they're nice, really. Pretty cute, too. I wouldn't doubt that in the future they'll really take a bite of me though, a bit of me. They've got strong jaws, like wolves, and sometimes a little lack of self-control when they're being over protective of their master, as usual. I mean, hey, he's my brother, too! But I always thought I was kinda like a wolf. Majestic, a leader, a fighter…_

_Well, look at me now. _

_Do wolves go to heaven?_

_Do wolves go to wherever I am now?_

_I guess I won't know. I guess I may have just disproved my theory, then. I'm not a wolf. _

_I'm not a country anymore either, not since I was… demolished. Dissolved. Disillusioned. But I've got my clarity back now and all this sunshine is blinding me – I can't feel the warmth anymore. I guess that's another downfall of being dead and ghostly and shit. I always used to feel it too much 'cause of my pale as snow skin and, well, I would burn but I'd revel in it nonetheless. _

_And now I'm here; I'm cold on a warm, sunny morning, overlooking my own grave as I sit in the middle of shit-all nowhere. _

_Huh. _

_Not quite as poetic as I imagined, or, well, considering me, maybe it is. But, who am I, Austria? Ha! I'll have to use that one later. I'm thinking it will come in quite useful._

_Maybe when Germany joins me I can tell him it, if I still remember. How long will that be? Why… why does it sound like I'm hoping he _does?

_No, n-no, I'm not heartless! I… I love my baby brother, and it's not hard to tell, I don't think. He's always had quite a lot of talent on the flute, the one I play… _played, _I guess I should say. Or think. Or whatever this is. It's too bad I never got to properly teach him, or hear him, like with little Holy Rome… he probably would have sounded so awesome, too. If he's anything like me, he'll be great!_

_If he's anything like me…_

_Holy Rome, Old man Fritz, me…_

_We seem to have a lot in common. _

_I just hope Germany, the sweet kid, ends up nothing like us. Not now. _

_Oh, well, there's no use thinking about it. I look over at Germany, and, surprisingly to me at least, he's still here. I feel my eyes open wide, the sunshine blinding me and blurring my vision almost completely but I can still see Germany's equally bright yet pale blue eyes in the sun. He covers his eyes with his arm momentarily and, with a frown scrunching his young face, he steps away, away from where I lie. _

_He looks up. _

_I freeze, and stare right into his eyes. _

_He stares back. _

_I stare onwards, reaching out, about to say his name–_

_He shakes his head, dips his cap over his eyes, and turns to walk away. _

_And I slowly recoil back, like a dog on a chain that just can't escape. _

_I don't know why I just called myself that. _

_I guess I am a dog. I guess I am a wolf. _

_Wolves are fighters, protectors, loyal things…_

_But they can also travel alone. They can die alone. They can be alone. _

_I'm a lone wolf. An outcast, it seems. _

_And I sigh. _

_As I said, as I've always been thinking, death is a lot harder when you're living it… than when you're still _alive.

* * *

><p><em>Shit.<em>

I look around, frantic, my eyes darting this way and that as I register nothing but blinding light that pierces me like knives and–!

_Shit, shit, shit! Shit! Stay calm, Prussia, stay–!_

I sit up, shaking, breathing heavily as my chest lowers and rises like I can't breathe, like I'm drowning.

I look around – I'm in my room, with junk everywhere, jackets on the back of chairs and gloves on the dresser as the light from the window pours through the broken blinds. I listen to my breathing, feel my heart beat slow as I push myself down again, into the warmth of my bed where I remember the chill I felt in that awful…

I scrunch up my face, and bury my nose in the pillow…

…That awful dream? Nightmare? Future? _Memory?_

…I sigh. Who knows? We can't read time and we can't read the universe. We can't even read our own existence, as leaders, as people, as countries, so who's to say we can ever even understand _dreams? _Who's to say that we can't turn from country to human, human to country?

I breathe out, shakily, and scrunch my tired, strained and aching eyes shut as I try to sleep for a long deep time, away from all… this. Usually I look so happy when I leave the door to this room, this private little sanctuary, I guess. Now?

Well…

Who's… who's to say we can't die?

I shake my head and lie there, here, on this bed, feeling the warmth around me like a fiery cocoon as I wait.

Time is passing…

I…

I can see that hill again, the one from my dream, and Germany's there…

And…

And _Luddi _is there…

I…

I think I might be…

Falling…

I turn… in my sheets… pull… head… warm… tired… night… morning…

Falling…

Asl…

Asleep…

I snore, and dream in discomfort as I'm pretty sure whoever made us countries is looking down at me, laughing, saying only one thing over and over: _"Checkmate."_


	7. Checkmate 5: The Time For Change Is Now

**Based on Hima's new(-ish) strip, "Opening a country is tough, too."**

* * *

><p>I've always had a lot of dreams… guess that makes me a 'dreamer,' huh? That's pretty unrealistic and stupid – not something on my level!<p>

Well, anyway, that shit has lately been turning to 'nightmares.' You know that scary crap you get at the dead of night, when you have the cold sweats and you try to turn away from it when your breathing is getting heavier and heavier and faster and faster and you just can't–

Yeah. _Those _things.

Well, instead, I've been having a lot of _those. _Now I sincerely wish I was a dreamer again.

For instance, there was that nightmare a couple of days ago… or I think it was a nightmare, anyway. I saw my own grave, and Germany… Germany was _looking _at it and he just…

And in the time between that I look at my hand, and think about what I was doing so many days ago… it seems as though at the first chapter of… _this_… just _this_, close to a month now, I've done nothing, gone nowhere.

What has my brother done? Built new schools, welcomed new families into his country, made and lost and built and destroyed… and what about me? I've got pissed off my arse and cried whilst sitting all alone, playing a video game that will mean nothing in a few years or chugging a heavy bear that will be gone in under a second.

Huh.

Right now, that beer sounds like a good option.

…

…

…See what I mean?

Yeah, well, obviously the one I would usually consult about these issues, my little bro, is no longer an option. So, instead, I could be consulting the one and only who knows me best – no, not Austria, and no, not my cutie Gilbird – but, instead, my own writing.

It's time to visit the ol' Prussia archives. And now, I'm standing in them.

If the amount of books and notes and scraps is anything to tell by, I'm starting to think my timeline has been slowing like a train, or like a game of chess. It's got boring. It's been going on for _hours… _It's time to end this.

It's time to play the final piece, _checkmate._

And time's repeating itself. I bet if I was a time traveller I could find myself internally shouting the same thing just yesterday.

But, I gotta say, I didn't know I used to write so much... There are so many _books _here! I… I don't really do this anymore, I don't know why or when I stopped… Needless to say, though, it's clear I blabbed _a lot_.I guess I've always been, how everyone describes, 'self-important.' I guess that's at least half-true. I'm almost a month into my dying process and I haven't out-right told anybody.

Well, I guess that makes this visit all the easier, huh?

I start walking up the hallways, the corridor of books, and find myself turning my head to a very specific isle – my early days. I was… an obnoxious kid, and I still am. Ugh. No point looking at my past with _Russia… _it will just bring back more horrible memories…

I walk on, and reach an isle much nearer – this will probably be one of my more boastful eras – I reach for a book and, apparently, if the (honestly) poorly drawn picture I've scrawled is anything to tell by, I offered to help Japan in this one, when he first showed his new face to the world he's shut away… couldn't bite, could it?

I reach in for no one specific volume, one I've written in – I peer in closer and, for whatever reason, it says, '_Opening a country is tough, too!_' slap-bang on the front. I don't know what to think, so now I just open the book and get reading–

The sudden wind in this room however flips a few pages, and I step back, before it lands on one with a gentle crisp _flick _and _flutter _and the memory scrawled down seems to come alive, as if he, Japan, is here with me now.

"_Every single day, you're at your desk with books…_" I remember myself saying and, simultaneously, I realise that pain on my foot hasn't gone for a week now so I take a seat at the table under the window to my side, right where a light breeze of wind is coming in. I cough, and start reading again – "_Books, books, and more books…_" I scratch my face, and scratch the back of my hand. "_You hardly move at all._"

_Japan looks at me with a mix of content, and something else. I notice, barely, but I say nothing about it. Instead, I continue, "I'm surprised you don't get bored. How about at least going out and relaxing a little?" I sit with my head rested on one hand, my hand resting on one elbow. Relaxing… hah, it's a fine past time. Fighting, laughing, having a little fun… drinking with buddies… nothing better than a drink. Nothing better than a little bit of company, though, too. Something Japan could clearly use._

I itch my nose, and look around. All I've got is a stack of my own musings… huh. The only company I've got now is myself and probably a keg of bitter beer in the back.

I keep my elbows firmly on the table, and continue reading. I see Japan in my head.

_Japan looks away, determined almost… "There are many things I must learn." Ah, so he's taken some of my wisdom! "Because I wish to stand on equal ground with all of you!"_

_I laugh, smile lightly, and scratch my face. "So that's why you're relying on my wonderful advice…" Heh, they usually never come freely, without a reason… _

I look around me again, at the shelves upon shelves of books and the otherwise empty walls… they never really come at all, now. Now _I'm _the one coming to them… whoever _they_ are.

"_I have a lot to learn," Japan says as he looks to his side, face tense as he folds his arms over his chest, "like your laws, and systems, and also your tenacity." _

_Hah, my tenacity has always been admirable… I've got a certain strength about me, don't I? _

…Huh. I don't have much of a grip anymore…

"_Well, look who understands my appeal!" I say with a light laugh. "I'll approve if you try your best, 'cause I like hard workers."_

_He doesn't look impressed. _He doesn't look impressed, even now. _I'll have to ramp it up. "If you insist, I'll look at how your studying is going, so greatly rejoice!" He's not rejoicing. Better get him to work. _

The only thing I describe next is teaching him to speak… German? Huh, I smile lightly, but then tense my lips a bit. Self-important as always, huh?

Well, it looks like Japan is having a hard time speaking my language.

_He's worked up, a lot, until eventually he shouts at the top of his lungs, "'Shuterunenhimmel'! What is this? Please stop mocking me!" _

_There's a silence, and I pause, dumbstruck, before breezily laughing, "Oh, good job! Remember that feeling just now," I look to Japan, and he looks… shamed, for some reason. Huh, is my life style really that bad? I look down at myself, and twist the flower in my shirt pocket an inch. Heh. There's no way! "You sure have a lot of suppressed feelings." I can't imagine myself ever being like that. Huh, stupid thought? _

I sigh.

"_You want to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with us, right? You can't last if you don't have the vigour to snap at anyone."_

_I put my hands on my hips and let out a puff of air, fresh as the day I was born! _

"_Also, it might be a good change of pace if you speak up! It's fine to just study too, but even someone as diligent as I am makes sure to rest well."_

I scratch at the bags under my eyes, and look around blankly. I think of my nightmares. I think of…

I close the book with a blurry _thud. _

My old self had made Japan say two words… I don't know why I did it now, but… but the words…

I look at them now…

_Sternenhimmel… _Starry sky.

_Kirschblüte… _Cherry blossom.

I was never one for poetry, never have been. Blunt to the point without many words in between. Crying and chugging a beer within a few minutes, a few pages. Conquering a land and laughing about drivel within a few seconds. It's always been this way. I've always been impulsive.

I've always been a dreamer.

I pick up the book and take it back over to its original shelf again and, with a light frown and twist of my mouth, I slot it back into place. It doesn't look lonely there or anything, just… just another thing, there, doing… nothing.

What was it I said again inside that very book?

"_Every single day, you're at your desk with books, books, books, and more books… you hardly move at all."_

I look at my library, my endless, endless library of libraries.

"_I'm surprised you don't get bored. How about at least going out and relaxing a little?"_

I scratch at my cheek, and remember the beer from that Halloween party not much of a month ago as I swish my tongue around my mouth, mentally tasting the beer I downed and downed to try and drown out my fears with no proper solution than to forget it all like a dead man… like I went to that party to do.

When did I become so cynical?

"_Well, look who understands my appeal! I'll approve if you try your best, 'cause I like hard workers."_

I remember my endless days of video games, of trying to cover my wounds with plasters as if that would help, and my endless wallowing and crying and hiding and faking… _hard workers_, my arse. What is hard about faking?

What is easy about facing the truth?

"_Can you pronounce this word?!"_

Starry sky… haven't seen one of those in a while. I blame the pollution, which is Germany's fault, of course…

I blame the fact my car keys are so far away…

"_Try to read this next one!"_

Cherry blossoms… they fall with the seasons. But they regrow.

I wonder if Hungary plucks a new one for her hair every year… I can't say I go through the same crap every year for similar pointless shit… What good would that do…?

"_Remember that feeling just now."_

It must do something… it makes her happy…

"_You sure have a lot of suppressed feelings."_

…and I am _not _happy…

"_You want to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with us, right?"_

…and I want to _be _happy…

"_You can't last if you don't have the vigour to snap at anyone."_

…and when I make fun of Austria, just to switch their attention, just to switch _my _attention, I… I'm not happy. I'm not happy _at all. _I wonder how they reacted when I stumbled out of that party like a drunken mess… Would the old me in this book have laughed off my cries like I did then? The shame? Would the old me have been so… so… so _horrible _about myself?

Would the old me laugh at me now, or would the old me try and pick me up from the dirt?

Who would _I_ rather be?

"_Also, it might be a good change of pace if you speak up!"_

…I look up, out of the window, the open window I stay behind as the curtains flap lightly in the wind like a pair of wings and I stop, numb, my eyes slowly switching points of focus and I can only say one thing, one simple thing I don't think I have ever said to anyone or myself in my entire multiple century long life… "Shit… When did I become what I hate most?"

And it's only when I'm alone can I change these things, can I think them, can I say them… and it's only when I'm alone, with no one I care about, can I actually help people when I don't have to pretend yet… like that kid in the park… like Japan in the past…

…like myself in this room, this library of my life…

…If someone screamed in a forest, would there be any sound?

"…I need to stop being a shut-in like Japan was. Where did that get him?" I laugh. I snort. I stifle a cry. "Absolutely _nowhere..._"

I look out the window, at the shapes of figures walking the streets as they have lives they live, as they talk to others and they laugh…

"…I need to have a talk."

I've always been a dreamer, and I thought just a few minutes earlier that is what I've always wanted to be… ignorance is bliss, isn't that that the truth? Well, it's not. It's never enough to just… to just exist without knowing all there is to know. Without exploring all there is to explore. Without being all you can be.

I turn to the exit of my slowly darkening archive, my vault of secrets and, as I give my shelves of strangely _changing _shit I pause.

Is this what it was like for Japan all those years ago?

Is this… is this what I visited him to change?

…

…

…

I walk towards all of the windows and, one by one, I draw back the thick curtains and let the light shine in on every word I've ever said, filling the room with… with glorious light.

…Yes. Yes, it is.

I reach the last one and head back to the exit of the archive, not even locking the door as I stride through, chin as high as I can keep it.

Scream shit and someone will take notice… but you won't be standing next to them. You'll be at their feet. When you're laughing at them with tears in your eyes like at that party… you'll drown in your sorrow.

But, if you stand your ground, and just… and just say what you _need _to, not what you think you do… you'll…

I slowly, ever so slowly, sigh, but not out of tiredness… out of _relief. _Hundreds of years of words have been unlocked, open, illuminated…

"…I need to apologise to Austria."

And I've only just begun.


End file.
